Not a Whore
by Madam Callisto
Summary: "It couldn't be argued that Sherlock Holmes was an odd man, but Sgt. Sally Donovan could hardly resist the urge to punch the man in the face whenever he appeared." The series through the Sgt's eyes. Reviews appreciated!
1. Not a Whore

It couldn't be argued that Sherlock Holmes was an odd man, but Sgt. Sally Donovan could hardly resist the urge to punch the man in the face whenever he appeared. She had never really considered herself to be a particularly violent person or one prone to silly things like name calling, but just being in his presence made her angry. And anger was very unbecoming of the professional considered herself to be-at least when that _freak_ wasn't around.

Hating the man hadn't been a conscious choice for her. It was just that the she found his eyes unnerving. When he would look at her and tell her things about boyfriends she was dating, meals she had earlier, and how much weight she'd gained in the past few days, it was all she could do to not beat the man to death in front of every other officer in the station and simply stop herself at calling him a freak. Later, she'd make attempts to relax herself by imaging Sherlock's face on the punching bag in her living room which usually helped a bit, but that violated feeling that she got when others stared at her, or picked apart her life still remained. And no amount of sweat could wipe that away.

At the very least Lestrade was understanding enough. He understood the discomfort she felt around him and was as accommodating as he could be-within reason anyway. He leaned on the man like a damn crutch...

"You haven't called him again have you?" Sally asked. Lestrade looked up from the fresh corpse of a young blond they were both standing over to meet her rather intense gaze.

"Actually I have as a matter of fact." Sally rolled her eyes.

"Couldn't leave one case to us, sir? Got to send for the man every time a prostitute gets stabbed? I mean this shit seems like a pretty clear situation to me." Lestrade winced slightly under her accusing tone. Sally knew he agreed with her, after all this was probably one of the fastest a case had solved itself for them.

An elder couple had discovered the blond in the alley on their way to a nearby store. She was scantily clad, showed clear signs of recent sexual activities and had been stabbed half a dozen times and her throat had been cut. The couple had phoned the police and in under an hour officers had picked up a man passed out in an adjacent alley with his clothes drenched in blood. It had been clean and simple. Something they could brag to the press about.

Sometimes a murder was just exactly what it seemed. And they could really use a closed case to improve the department's stats.

"Yeah, I know how it seems but I've just got this feeling in my gut that I can't seem to shake." He said.

Sally nodded her head in mock agreement. "Alright then we won't go that Italian restaurant again, but can we not have that bastard barge in here and make an ass of the entire department?"

"Bit late for that I'm afraid."

Sally closed her eyes with a sigh. "And how long have you been lurking about the crime scene?" She asked without turning to where Sherlock stood behind her. Lestrade greeted the man politely enough.

"Long enough to know your 'prostitute' isn't actually a prostitute and the man you have locked up didn't kill her." Sally could feel a headache begin to form in the front of her skull.

"Is he serious?" She said turning to Lestrade. Sherlock shuffled past Sally and knelled behind the girl's body. The girls blue eyes were open and cloudy beneath the piles of green make up. Her face was surprisingly pretty beneath the dried blood and Sally felt a slight knot in her stomach at how young the girl was. There was no doubt that the girl was underage. Her short denim skirt was hiked up over her waist and as the only female officer on the scene, Sally wanted desperately to pull them down over her pink panties to give the girl at least a tiny shred of dignity in death. Sherlock seemed extremely comfortable picking and poking at her dead body with his magnifying glass.

Lestrade's eyes followed his movements. "So what do you see?" Sherlock stood up suddenly and pocketed his magnifying glass. Here it comes, Sally thought, the 'you guys are all idiots and I'm here to save the day' speech.

"As I thought this girl was definitely not a prostitute." Sherlock said, his voice oozing excitement. The desire to punch something was resurfacing in Sally's mind.

"And how hell do you figure that?" She asked.

"Your killer was left handed and by the look of this girls' clothing I'd say so was the person who dressed the victim. She was right handed I'd say by the callouses on her hand. They most likely came from some sports based activity, I'd say tennis. That should help you identify her."

Sally bit down on her thumb in annoyance. Lestrade threw her a warning glance to calm down. "How do you know the killers left handed?" He asked.

"Oh come on, that one is easy." Sherlock brought an un-gloved finger up to the dead girl's throat and Sally slapped it away before he could actually touch her skin. He continued, not bothered by the action. "The direction of the cut on her throat would suggest as much. And I can guess from the blood splatter on the clothes of the man you arrested that he was nearby during the killing."

"Yeah, because he was busy _killing her_." Sally said sternly. Sherlock shook his head with a sigh.

"He was clearly far too high to remember if he did any murdering last night but it's not that it matters since he's right handed as well."

"Right, right." As much as she wished it wasn't true, everything he'd said made perfect sense. And it meant once less case closed without Sherlock Holmes.

"No need to worry Detective Inspectors, you're looking for a man, white, late teens or early twenties, blond, and with a tattoo on his inner thigh." With that Sherlock walked off leaving Sally and Lestrade to stare at the girl's body in confusion.

"Might wanna close your mouth, sir." Sally said. He did, clearing his through uncomfortably.

"Alright then." He said. "Now we know what to look for in our killer."

"I guess so."

Lestrade turned and headed out of the crime scene, leaving Sally alone to gaze at the cold body of the unnamed teenage girl. Sure they knew what the killer looked like, but they still didn't know who the girl was. She was young, she was blond, she'd had a twenty in her wallet, and she wasn't a whore. But apart from that, nothing. As much as she didn't want to admit it, if Sherlock being involved in the case would help identify the girl, then she would swallow her pride.

But maybe she'd do something about her headache first.

* * *

><p>Sally's fists began to feel slightly numb after hours of repeatedly pounding them into her unlucky punching bag. Beneath her knuckles the bag's plastic covering began to flake and peel, leaving blue plastic pieces scattered across her apartment floor. She paid no attention to that, and kept right on punching into the bag, the image of the blank eyes of the dead girl burned into her brain and Sherlock's scornful voice ringing in her ears. It made her head hurt to the point where her eyes actually began to water. But Sally had no intention of letting herself cry.<p>

Sherlock was annoying, he was rude and honestly an ass, but he'd done nothing to her. Sure he'd been far to blunt about things she didn't want to talk about, but she had boyfriends who'd said more hurtful things. No, that wasn't really what bothered her about Sherlock at all. It was his eyes.

His eyes that reminded her so much of another person who been so good at reading her thoughts, at telling her exactly what she needed to hear. Sherlock's eyes had that same piercing feeling, that same cold aura that made her feel just like a frightened little girl again. And Sally had promised herself that she would never let herself feel that way around another person. She would never be like that weak little not-a-whore, lying cold in an alley full of holes. So she kept right on pounding away at that punching bag. Punching, until the chain holding up the punching bag strained its and the scars beneath Sally's underwear lining ached.


	2. His so called 'colleague'

It really was very hard to maintain a smoking habit in London. That of course didn't stop Sally from trying her hardest keep it up, which was why she wasn't nearly as angry at Lestrade for asking her to 'secure the crime scene' while him and the big boys sat like impotent puppies in the corner while Sherlock Holmes saved the day.

Sally drew a long breath from her cigarette, savoring the feeling of calm that grew in her more and more every second. It was a welcome distraction from the bitter cold that nipped at her bare legs, but she didn't really mind the feeling much anymore. She'd gotten pretty good at walking around a crime scene in a pencil skirt and heels. Several of the officer glanced over at her with disapproving faces at the halo of smoke seeping through her curly hair, but as soon as she turned to meet their stares they looked away and continued pacing the police tape. Being Sargent had its perks. Sally took a final drag from the cigarette and then dropped it, grinding it under her heel.

The door to the victim's house swung open and out of the corner of her eyes she recognized the sweeping of Sherlock's long coat. There was a skip in his step that he seemed to be making no effort to conceal and Sally was pretty sure she knew why.

"It wasn't a suicide!" He said, a smile on his lips. A small snort escaped Sally. Of course. The only reason a man like him would ever be in a good mood-a murdered woman.

"Who the hell would be excited about that shit?" She asked, walking up to meet the overexcited man. Sherlock ignored the question and walked past her, heading toward a cab parked just past the crime tape. Sally shook her head and wondered how she could still be surprised at the freaks attitude towards dead people. A few step behind Sally, the man froze in his tracks and turned to her, a more blank and calm look on his face.

"What is it now, freak?" She asked a feeling of nervous creeping over her against her best wishes. Sherlock leaned slightly forward and closed his eyes, taking in a long deep breath. Sally jumped backwards, nearly tripping as she realized what he was doing.

"Are you fucking _smelling_ me?" Sherlock stood back up abruptly looking up Sally as if he finally noticed that she was there.

"Yes, suppose I am."

Sally found herself inexplicably speechless for once under the intensity of his stare. He wasn't blinking at all, just staring, and breathing in deeply through his nostrils. A heat flooded into her cheeks and she felt extremely glad she couldn't blush. Then his face suddenly broke out into a wide grin as he turned away.

"This one is definitely a three patch problem."

Sally blinked, not entirely sure what he'd said. "What?"

"Mrs. Hudson gets far too uppity when I try to smoke in the flat-"

"Who the fuck is Mrs. Hudson?" Sally said, her uncomfortableness fading into confusion and annoyance. He didn't bother slowing down to explain his train of thought, as if she wasn't really worth his time.

"Don't know how I'll find the case otherwise..." Sherlock turned running his index finger across his lips. "Best to start with the large back allies within a five mile radius..."

"Alright, freak, I give up." The man was clearing talking to himself. Sherlock leaned in a last time-to inhale the smell of the cigarette she'd just smoked Sally now realized-and ran off into his cab, still mumbling about some woman's pink case.

As the cab drove off, Sally noticed she'd been holding herself so tensely that she looked like a rubber band on the verge of snapping. Her body had reacted like that on its own, preparing for an attack, and she hated it. She didn't know how anyone could stand to be around the man.

Just as she thought this, as if he'd been summoned, the man Sherlock had referred to as his 'colleague' limped out of the house.

He didn't look like the type of man who'd associate himself with Sherlock Holmes. He seemed ordinary, polite, and, more importantly, sane. He looked almost cartoonishly straight laced when he walked besides the freak and Sally wondered to herself what kind of man could grab his attention so quickly. 'Doctor Watson' was what he'd called him. Hmpf. It'd been _months_ before Sherlock had remembered her name. Doctor Watson was looking around, clearly looking for the cab Sherlock had just taken off it. Poor guy.

"He's gone." She said plainly. The man turned towards her a slight wrinkle in his brow.

"Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yeah, he just took off. He does that." There was a noticeable slump in his shoulders that Sally was used to seeing on her dog when he didn't get a bite of her dinner. What exactly did Sherlock mean to this man?

"Is he coming back?" He asked. Never a good sign.

Sally shook her head. "Didn't look like it."

John nodded. "Right." There was a sudden buildup of uncomfortableness in the silence and she turned away to ask another officer for the time. Watson turned back to her asked her where he was and how he could get a cab and any suspicion she might have felt early melted into pity for the man. He really didn't seem all that bad. Not that he'd stay that way for very long, following around the freak. Sally lifted up the crime scene tape to let the man limp out and thought about what she could possibly say to discourage him from getting to close.

So she tried. She told Doctor Watson that Sherlock Holmes didn't have friends that he wasn't paid to come to crimes scene that he just enjoyed. But the more she talked, the less she felt she was getting through to him. Sure, he was clinging to her every word, but behind the layer of worry on his face, was a spark. A tiny spark of interest as if the cogwheel in his head were turning just the tiniest bit faster at her every word. Sally hoped maybe she was imagining it.

"Donovan!" Lestrade called. Shit.

"Coming!" She shouted, bending under the crime scene tape to head into the house for the first time. Something in Sally was pretty sure the doctor hadn't really gotten the message. As she turned and told him to stay away from Sherlock Holmes she would've sworn he seemed far more alive and awake then he'd seemed earlier.

Shit.

* * *

><p>The killer was dead, shot by some vigilante who'd out of nowhere appeared and saved Sherlock life. It was odd. Very odd and Sally knew something was up and was reasonably sure Lestrade did as well. He was questioning Sherlock who sat uncomfortably in an ambulance with a blanket draped over his shoulder. His 'colleague' was nearby as well, looking around in a strangely excited way. He was furling and unfurling the fingers of his left hand behind his back as his eyes settled on Sherlock. Sally noticed that he didn't have his cane with him but that seemed like the smallest change to have come over the man since their last meeting. The entire time she'd been explaining what had happened to Sherlock she had the vaguest feeling he had known it all already...<p>

Sally felt her phone vibrate inside her pocket. "Donovan."

"Evenin', sexy." a voice said in a deep tone. Sally smiled.

"Evening to you too, Anderson." She said, using her sweet professional voice that she knew he liked. "We still on for tonight?".

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Better not." She said sternly. This hadn't been going on long-Sally and Anderson-it was strangely fun and dangerous since they worked together but she knew pretty well that their relationship had an expiration date. For now she figured she might as well make the best of it. As soon as it started getting in the way of the job she would drop the man on his ass so fast he be walking sideways for a week. And not in the good way he normally was after a night with her-

"-you're the one who shot him."

Sally turned, lowering her phone at the sound of Sherlock's voice. What had he just said?

Doctor Watson turned back towards her a nervous smile on his face. He said something about Sherlock being in shock that she didn't really catch.

You're the one who shot him.

Anderson's voice whispered filthy things in her ears about what he intended to do to her later that Sally ignored.

The one who shot him, Sherlock had said...

Sally knew she should always trust her gut.


	3. Strawberries

Sally slid her legs out of the cover of her blanket to get a better look at her knees. She frowned at the slightly faded scuff marks that coated her skin, and the familiar feeling of a rage headache began to form in the back of her mind as the mocking tone of Sherlock echoed in her head. Cleaning Anderson's floor_ indeed_. She had never, and would never go down on her knees for a man. But there were of course other ways of getting those marks on someone's legs...

Anderson turned over with a loud snort in his sleep and his arms swung unconsciously onto her thighs. With an irritated grunt, Sally shoved his hand away and pulled herself out of Anderson's bed, stopping only to throw on one of his sweat shirts-the one that smelled the least like liquor and failure-before heading towards the door.

"Where ya goin', baby?" Anderson's sleepy voice said. With a sigh Sally turned to him trying to force a bit of a smile. She managed a look of barely concealed annoyance.

"Grabbing a smoke, I'll just be a minute."

"What in my apartment?" Sally's narrowed her eyes in a way that made Anderson's blood run cold. "It's just, you know, my asthma...so-"

"Fine, whatever." Sally snapped, pulling on her jeans. Anderson smiled nervously at her. This of course did nothing but piss her off further. But in retrospect, just about every face he made pissed her off in one way or another. It was one of the many reasons she never really bothered to make eye-contact with the man when the lighting wasen't dim. Sally pulled on her sneakers and coat and headed out of the apartment without another word.

The night's coldness wasn't too bad do to the lack of wind so Sally didn't bother trying to find a warmer place to smoke. She hadn't bothered to check the time but by the look of the street it was pretty late. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out her package of cigarettes. At this point she didn't really know why she even bothered to fake kindness towards Anderson at all. She should've lite it right in front of him and blew a smoke ring straight in his fucking face.

She didn't necessarily need to grab a smoke, even if she did enjoy her post-coital cigarette; she mostly wanted to give herself room to think away from Anderson. As much as she hated to admit it, Sherlock was right. Being around him made her feel like her I.Q was slowly shrinking.

She'd been tuning him out all night anyway. Ignoring his terrible dirty talk and just not really paying any of the things he did with his tongue. She had more important things on her mind. Namely, the words Sherlock had let slip at the crime scene a few hours earlier.

_You're the one who shot him._

Sally's lips pressed down firmly on the tip of her cigarette. She knew what she had heard and she knew well enough that it hadn't been meant at a joke. But Sally had no intention of arresting the man unless she had some kind of solid evidence. After all if she was wrong she'd make a fool of herself, ruin her reputation, and make an enemy of Sherlock Holmes. Well, a more serious enemy of him anyway.

The lighter in Sally's hand sparked feebly for a moment and then went out before it reached the cigarette in her mouth. On the second attempt it only sparked for a moment. By the fourth and fifth attempts, Sally was pressing her thumbs so firmly into the lighter that the poor plastic thing squeaked as it made sounds of being on the verge of breaking.

The next morning she intended to find out as much about Doctor Watson as she could without arousing suspicion. His life, his job history, his friends, family, co-workers, pets, where he was born, where he grew up, and of course, how he'd met Sherlock. The man clearly meant something to the doctor as he was clearly willing to murder for him-

"Need a lite, darling?" A man asked. Sally blinked. She'd been so absorbed in her thoughts that she hadn't noticed him approach and lean against the side of the building besides her. She nodded to the man who lite the lighter in his hand and then reached it out towards Sally. She leaned in towards the flame and couldn't help but notice the pleasant smell of strawberries that came from the man. It was out of place considering the clear amount of money he'd spent of his suits. He smiled at the look on her face. It was a wide childish grin that was surprisingly cute.

"It's my lotion, darling, can't have dry hands."

Sally smiled back at him and pulled the cigarette from her lips, blowing out a small circle into the night air. The man pocketed his lighter. "Not gonna have a smoke?" Sally asked offering her box.

"No, no, I don't smoke." There was a small pause. "It'll kill you."

Sally laughed. "You're not going to give me a lecture right after giving me a lite are you?"

"Nah." He said, slouching against the wall with a look of utter content on his face.

"Good, that'd be entrapment anyway." That made the man smile again which cheered Sally up a bit too in ways she couldn't explain.

"Glad you're smiling now. You look much prettier that way then when you scowl."

"I wasn't scowling" She mumbled. Anderson always said her face would get stuck like that...

"Man troubles?" He asked.

Sally suppressed a smile. "Among other things. I'm a cop." She wasn't sure when she decided to tell him that. The man turned to her, no longer leaning against the wall.

"Really?" He asked excitedly.

"Yeah, it's a case thing. So I can't really talk about it."

"Aw, you sure? I'm super good at keeping secrets." He mimed zipping up his lips and throwing away the key.

"Sorry, still can't." Sally took a last drag from her cigarette and ground it under sneaker. "I should probably head back in."

"It's been nice talking to you then..."

"Sally." She said, sticking out her hand.

"Jim." He said, shaking her hand firmly. Whatever strawberry lotion he used on his hands, Sally really wanted to give it a try. They were soft as hell. Jim walked off with a wave and she headed back into Anderson's apartment, feeling a lot calmer. She felt as if she could handle whatever was going on with Sherlock and Dr. Watson but for now, she just wanted to sleep.

But even as she pushed Anderson aside to lie down in bed, she couldn't help wondering how she had been the only one who noticed anything off about Dr. Watson. She guessed there was something about a person who was polite, and sweet that made everyone completely blind to who they really were.

Idiots.


	4. The Thousand Yard Stare

She'd been fine at the first two scenes. She'd been the calm and practical professional that her job demanded she be. The third hadn't really been an issue for her as it had mostly involved cleaning up bodies and she was useless for that. But the fourth one had been different. The fourth had been a child.

Sally had gotten the call from Lestrade and had shown up at the addresses like she'd been doing all day, expecting to just need to debrief another crying young man or woman before being forced to head back to the office and write everything up. It may have been a bit cold and clinical, but it was what was needed of her for now. The case wasn't over yet, and she sure as hell had no plans to slow the investigation down. She and all of the other officers had been on edge all day because of it. An actual serial bomber in London? Things didn't really happen like that in real life-at least not until they'd met Sherlock Holmes. There was some madman, some stalker, so obsessed with the man that they'd been throwing weird cryptic mysteries at him all day.

So when she'd the apartment of the fourth victim (after the bomb squad had cleared the area) Sally felt her body go numb at the sight in front of her.

The first thing to strike Sally was the smell; unfortunately even in her state of shock, the detective part of her brain kept right on absorbing everything around her. The air smelled like death, and sweat, and fear in a way that made it impossible for Sally to stifle a small gag. The feeling of a cold sweat spread across her body. It was the child's parents who lay sprawled messily across the couch, with a matching set of bullet holes in their skulls. Their eyes were closed, as if they'd just casually fallen asleep and never woken up. The mother lay leaning against the father gently, a hand draped against his arm in a beautifully sad gesture. Sally turned away from the corpses to check on the child, and then immediately wished that she hadn't.

He was finally being removed from the chair he'd sat still in for nearly five hours before being found. The bomb was no longer strapped to his chest but he didn't seem like he really believed he was safe yet, as if he was still expecting an explosion at any moment. Sally felt moisture come to her eyes and she watched tears begin to roll down his cheeks. One of the few other female officers lifted him into her arms and he clung to her so tightly that his shaking actually sent tremors through her body as well. As Sally stared across the room, crowded with people picking apart the horrors of the child's last few hours, his eyes lifted away from the floor and met her eyes.

The eyes were blue. Blue and accusing as they stared into Sally's. It made her knees shake to see a look so beyond anything a child should ever have on their face aimed straight it her. But it wasn't a face she had never seen before. She remembered the dead, emptiness of the look as one she'd seen quite a few years ago. It had been in the mirror.

Sally knew he wasn't really looking at her at all, the accusing feeling she got from him was just in her mind. No, he was staring through her. A thousand yards away at his memories of things that no one else in the room could possibly understand.

So Sally ran.

Past her fellow officers and the reporters asking questions until she was outside of the apartment building and in one of the side alleys. But the she could still see the child's eyes staring coldly through her and it made her skin crawl. She knew that face well. That dead look had been her best friend. A mask she'd wore for years when she thought no one was looking, when she didn't force herself to smile or scowl or act like everything was okay when it really wasn't. But she hadn't been a child, a fool maybe, but not a child. Back when she'd fallen for _that_ man. The one with the eyes just like Sherlock's.

Sally blinked when she noticed a feeling of pain radiating through her knuckles. She looked down at the fingers on her right hand and realized that she'd been punching at the rough concrete of the apartment building. Sally laughed at her own stupidity.

"It doesn't stop hurting overnight." Sally said, sitting down in the ambulance next to the boy. He raised his eyes from where they'd been fixed on the lines in the road. She swallowed her discomfort as his eyes fell on her.

"Huh?" He asked. His voice was exactly as she imagined it would be; soft, small, and terrified.

"What happened to you today, it was awful. I know that. Nothing I can say could undo that, but it doesn't have to destroy you."

The boy tilted his head slightly to the left in a confused way. Sally smiled. "But I can promise you that we _will_ catch the son of a bitch who did this to your family."

He didn't say anything after that, and Sally wondered if maybe he didn't really want to hear any of this. After all, she'd just said what she'd have wanted to hear in his situation. The silence grew uncomfortable as Sally and the boy sat on the edge of the ambulance with their feet hanging out past the doors. The other officers had given her a little time with the kid, hoping that somehow she'd be able to get anything useful out of him. Sally felt like an idiot for being so blunt with the kid.

"When?"

Sally turned surprised at his voice. "When will we catch him?" she asked.

"When will it stop hurting?" he said the tiniest bit of life seeping into the numb mask on his face. Sally stood up with a sigh.

"Hey, you wanna see something kinda gross?" She said. A sly smile spread across her lips. A look of curiosity spread across his face. Sally turned so her back was facing him and lifted the back of shirt slightly.

"Whoa." The boy said, Sally laughed a little. That was definitely one of the nicer reactions she'd had to her scars. They weren't very pretty, thin lines that snaked across her back. You could still the marks from where the stitches had pulled the shredded skin back together into something that resembled her back. The boy could only see a small patch of the scars but beneath her clothes they looked like a strange road map stretching from the small of her back down across her stomach and stopping at the skin beneath her panties. 'Whoa' was a good word.

"What happened?" he asked. Sally pulled her shirt back down and sat beside him.

"A man, someone I loved and trusted hurt me." She said. "A bad guy, like the one who hurt you." The boys eyes remained fixed tightly on her. "Not in the same way, but sometimes, it still hurts."

"So is it never gonna stop hurting?" he asked. Sally shook her head.

"Well you can't make yourself forget." She said. "But you know what makes it hurt less?"

"What?"

"Beatin' the shit out of guys like the ones that hurt us." The boy actually laughed at this.

"You swear a lot." He said.

"Yeah, my bad. I get like that sometimes." She said, smiling to him. The smile made his seem like a completely different kid. "Do you think you can help me catch him?"

The boy nodded. "Good, because I really feel like beatin someone up."


	5. Freaks of a Feather

"So, this guy, this..."

"Moriarty."

"Moriarty. He was the one behind these bombings, huh?"

"Yes."

"And he strapped a bomb to John, huh?"

"Exactly."

"And tried to blow the two of you up?"

"That _is_ what I said isn't it?" Sherlock said rolling his eyes.

"Oh, I'm sorry, am I boring you?" Sally said with a scowl. The look of blatant hatred in her eyes could have melted ice. Sherlock sat calmly across from her, cleaning his nails, and paying no attention to the intensity of her glare. Lestrade looked back and forth between the two, a worried that a fight might break out at any moment.

It had been days since the last bombing and it was starting to seem as though things were calming down. That however meant that there were no more clues to help them find the person or people responsible. Sally and the rest of the detectives were left to sit around, twiddling their thumbs until he struck again. It was irritating as hell.

"Yes, actually you are. How nice of you to notice." He said dryly. Sally uncrossed her legs and leaned forward slowly across the table, her breathing was heavy as she tried to keep herself calm. A vein in her forehead pulsed.

"Donovan..." Lestrade said in a warning voice. Sally ignored him.

"Do you even care about how many people your little playmate killed?"

"Crying doesn't bring back the dead, and neither will your incessant questions."

"How silly of me to try to catch a murderer!"

"If he doesn't want to be caught I don't image anything you can do will help."

"Right, because only you have any hope ever catching criminals."

Sherlock smiled slightly. "I'm sure Scotland Yard is perfectly capable of handling the occasional shoplifter."

Sally's fingers curled, her nails dug into the smooth wooden surface of the table. "You wanna say that again, freak?"

"You may want to consider getting a hearing-aid."

Lestrade stood up out of his chair and cleared his throat. "Okay, kids, I think that's enough for now." Sally continued to stare at Sherlock as if she was trying to burn a hole in him with her eyes. Unfortunately for her, it didn't quite work.

"I'll be taking my leave then Lestrade."

"Alright, thanks for cooperating." And with that he exited the interview room, leaving Sally to stare angrily at the chair he'd been sitting in. Lestrade turned to her with a sigh. "I know the man can be irritating—"

"Irritating? I don't think that really covers it!"

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Lestrade and Sally sat quietly for a few minutes, during which time Sally managed to get her blood pressure slightly under control.

"Listen Sally…"

"Yeah?"

"If you're planning to kill him, don't do it in front of me. I wouldn't want to have to arrest you."

Sally laughed softly as she headed out of the interview room. "No promises."

"Oh, sorry." John said as Sally bumped into him. She nodded to him and took a seat down at her desk. John's interview had been right before Sherlock's, but it had of course been a lot less rage inducing, if less informative. He was still standing outside the interview room, looking back and forth. He must have just missed Sherlock by a few minutes.

"Ignoring my advice, Doc?" Sally asked. John turned slightly, his face puzzled.

"Sorry, what was that?"

"You and him." Sally said, "still 'colleagues'?".

"What? No, no, me and Sherlock arent-"

"Look, I really don't care what your relationship is but you saw him during all that bombing stuff!"

"I know he gets a bit excited when things get chaotic—"

"Excited?" Sally said, getting out of her chair, "You've got to notice that the freak thrives on sick shit like this!" Despite her best wishes to keep it steady, Sally felt her voice rise uncontrollably. John turned so they were finally facing each other, only a few feet apart.

"He's not a freak." He said bluntly. Sally rolled her eyes.

"Oh, please! Don't tell me you're so naive that you can't even see what kind of man he is!"

"I know exactly what kind of man he is." John's voice lowered, a sort of intensity building in it. The fingers of his left hand curled and uncurled. Sally looked down at his fingers and then back up in John's eyes without blinking. "And he is not a freak."

"You willing to bet your life on that?" She asked. John closed the gap between them slightly until Sally could swear she could physically feel the heat radiating from his body.

"I already have, and I'd do it again." He said firmly.

"Yeah, that's right you've already killed for him haven't you?" John blinked, taking a step back for a moment. The look on his face was one of innocent confusion.

"I have no idea what you're-"

"No, of course you don't." Sally snapped. There was a small smile forming on her lips. "I guess I was too late for you, John. I was much too late the moment you met the man."

John didn't say anything at this point, just continued to meet her gaze quietly. "I'm sorry for that." She said, her smile slipping. "Sorry that the freak already corrupted you-". John stepped forwards, pulling her towards him by the neck of her blouse. Sally reached into her pocket for her switchblade, but kept it closed inside her pants pocket.

"Don't..." He said, his breathing was heavy, "Call. Him. A. Freak." John didn't remotely resemble the kindly, disabled man she'd met so recently. When Sally looked into his eyes she knew, despite not having even gotten the chance to research the man yet, that he was a solider.

Sally laughed and pulled her shirts collar out of his grip with a yank. "Just my luck..." She said, turning away from John, but keeping her right hand still gripped tightly around the knife in her pocket, "…Sherlock Holmes went and found himself the only man on the fucking planet who's more of a freak than he is."

"John!" A voice called, "John, we've got another case!" The man worked fast.

She didn't turn around as she heard Sherlock's voice calling the doctor. John stood still for a moment, staring at Sally's back and then turned and followed Sherlock out of the building. Had Sally been watching she wouldn't noticed how quickly he's eyes had gone back to those of the polite, little man she'd met not so long ago. But she didn't. And every time she caught John's eyes from now on she knew she'd only think back to that terrifying look they'd had when she'd called Sherlock a freak.

But honestly, despite her new found feelings for John, she knew she had more important issues to deal with. Issue involving the promise she'd made to a young boy.


	6. The Smoking Gun

Served in Afghanistan. Honorable discharge. Possible PTSD...

"Sally?"

One older sister. No other living relatives in the country. Recently stopped seeing a therapist...

"Sally? You listening?"

A number of short-lived relationships. Temporary job at a local hospital. Middle name Hamish... odd. Owner of a Browning L9A1-

"_Sally!" _

"What?" Sally shouted, looking up from the pile of folders sprawled across her bed. Anderson had shoved his irritating, smiling face in between Sally and the papers she'd been reading. She wrinkled her nose at the thick smell of alcohol on his breath. Ignoring him, she moved her head around him to continue reading. Anderson grinned wider and shifted so that he was still in her line of sight.

"What are you doing?" He asked cheerfully. Dear God, Sally thought, was there a more annoying drunk on the planet?

"Reading something for a case." She said, shoving him away by his face. He giggled as he flopped onto the bed.

"What, the serial bombing case? I thought we didn't have anymore leads."

"Yeah, it's another case..." As much as she wished she could be reading up on the serial bombing case, there had been nothing new in months. Bad for the case, but good for her headaches. She hadn't had a case with Sherlock in a while. Apparently _her_ cases weren't good enough for him.

"That's good." Anderson said, sitting behind her on the bed and beginning to massage her shoulders. "I was worried you were obsessing again." Sally rolled her eyes. She wasn't sure how her putting on her baggy sweats and not acknowledging his existence hadn't been a clear enough hint.

Browning L9A1...why was that stuck in her head?

"Listen, Anderson..." She said, scouting forward on her bed.

"You know we're not at work, you don't need to call me Anderson." He said.

Sally cleared her throat. She'd been very carefully hiding the fact that she had no idea what Anderson's first name was for the duration of their relationship, claiming it was sexier for her to be formal and hoping he wouldn't bother to question it. So far it had worked out alright. "Fine" Sally said. "Just stop rubbing my shoulders." It was a simple matter of avoiding names. Something she wasn't unfamiliar with doing in her relationships.

Anderson laughed, the name issue already swept from his drunken mind. "Oh come on." He said, running his hands over her back and along her stomach slowly. Sally leaned over and picked up her mouth guard from her nightstand, popping it into her mouth in a defiant but childish way. "Oh wow, that's sexy..." He said with a groan.

"Mmm."

Sally went back to reading the file, ignoring Anderson who still sat behind her, half-naked.

Browning L9A1. The fact he owned a gun was enough to make her a little edgy, but something about that specific model resonated with her. She pulled out her laptop, preparing to look up the weapon, when she noticed an email from Lestrade.

_Thought this might interest you. _It read, with a link to someone's blog. She had no idea why Lestrade would think she'd be interested in something like that, but opened it anyway, and instantly let out a snort.

_The personal blog of Doctor John H. Watson_ it read. How quaint.

Anderson let out a matching snort in his sleep, to Sally's annoyance. She'd been planning to kick him out of her apartment before he got to comfortable, but his drinking had put a stop to that plan. Instead, she got up, popped out her mouth guard and lite a cigarette.

"Seriously, Sally? In the apartment?" Anderson mumbled sleepily.

Sally's eyebrow twitch was Anderson's only warning.

"I was just kidding! Really! Come on it's like three in the morning!" Anderson said, standing barefoot in the hallway outside Sally's apartment. Sally tossed him his jeans.

"See you at work." She said, starting to close the door.

"Sally, please. You're not serious gonna leave me like this are you?" Sally paused, her hand still on the door. Then she brought the cigarette in her other hand up to her lips and drew in a nice long breathe, breathing it out directly into Anderson's face. He stepped back with a small cough, and Sally slammed the door shut.

Sally skimmed through the earlier blog entries on the website. The first few were remarkably boring. Not just boring, but _really_ depressing. So much so, that she couldn't help feeling a bit sorry for the guy. The blog was a pretty uninteresting read really, until Sherlock entered the picture. But then it's all murder, mayhem, and kidnappings! John was truly a lucky guy.

Sally stopped when she got to an entry entitled _A study in Pink. _Apparently, Sherlock didn't know the earth went around the sun. Dear God, Sally thought with a smile, I hope that's true. She would enjoy mocking him about that one. There was a mention of her as well in the story, though not by name, which she was actually a little sad about. Sherlock tended to steal a lot of the attention away from Scotland Yard and she wouldn't mind being in the spotlight just a little. Not that she would ever say that aloud to any of the other officers.

The suitcase, the cellphone, the police searching their flat, it was all there. Not to mention some things about Sherlock that both humanized him, and convinced her he might just secretly be a robot. Sally scrolled down to the bottom of the story and checked out the comments, deciding she might as well leave one herself.

_Freak_

Not too original for her but it always got the point across. She was, however, not sure if she'd meant it for John or Sherlock.

Sally continued reading and finally got to the part describing Sherlock's confrontation with the killer. She felt her heart beat faster. There was no way he'd confess to the murder in his blog, but he no longer had to. She remembered why the Browning L9AI was stuck in her head. .

_...after everything that man had done to those innocent people who got into his car, a quick death like that was better than he deserved._

And all at once Sally knew she had him. The police had found out the bullet found in the killer's body had come from a Browning L9A1, and she knew it would match John's gun. All she needed was a warrant and it would all be over. That wouldn't be too hard to get. He had a motive, he had firearm experience, and more than one of the other officers had seen him nearly lose his temper with Sally a few months back. It was perfect.

Sally leaned backwards in her bed and smiled to herself as she blew smoke rings at her ceiling. Next up, Moriarty.


	7. Beyond your understanding

In a matter of minutes, Sally Donovan had become convinced that the entire universe and every single person in it was conspiring against her.

It had begun the morning when Sally was sure she'd be arresting John Watson. She'd come in earlier than usual with a wide smile and a skip in her step, planning to take her time, and review any and all pieces of evidence she had, before finally confronting Lestrade. But, very suddenly, it seemed like every single person in the country had decided to call Scotland Yard in a state of panic. Apparently there had been a small break in.

And thus began the worst week at work of Sally's life.

"Wait, wait, would you calm down for God's sake!" Sally shouted to the panicked voice on the other end of her phone. "What did you say was going on with the crown jewels?"

"_All the bloody cameras are out, don't you tell me to calm down! They're being stolen!"_

"What, someone is stealing _the_ crown jewels?" She asked.

"_Are you deaf, woman?" _The voice screeched hysterically. Sally held the phone away from her head with a wince. _"Yes, they are being stolen!"_

"Alright, no need to be _rude_. We're on our way." She said hanging up on the shrill man. Sally and Lestrade immediately headed to the scene, Lestrade trying desperately to wolf down the rest of his donut while driving, and Sally answer call after call from panicked people telling her there had been a second break in, and then a third. Nothing this exciting had happened to them in a while. Not since the serial bombing, Sally couldn't help noticing.

She'd prepared herself for a bombing, a murder, pretty much anything. But what she was not ready for was sight of Jim, 'the strawberry man' as she'd come to remember him in her head, sitting calmly behind a glass case, with the crown jewels draped over him. The first thought however, that came to her mind was that he looked damn-good in it. He smiled when then pulled him out the glass case and handcuffed him, and he only ever once made eye contact with Sally, and just for a brief moment. She choose to avoid any sort of acknowledgement that they in anyway knew each other.

"One package of gum: minty, one mobile phone, one gel pen: red, one notebook complete with what appear to be crude drawings of ducks and crowns—what the hell do you make of this, Donovan?"

Sally shrugged at Lestrade, entirely unsure of what to think about the content of Jim Moriarty's pockets. It was all too strange. The man she'd met purely by accident one random night had committed the crime of the century and according to Sherlock, quite a few more. She was missing something, she knew it.

"Has he said anything since we brought him in?" She asked.

"Not a word." Lestrade said.

She was definitely not getting the entire story, which left her very confused, and confused was not something she enjoyed being.

And then came the trial, and any feelings of confusion she felt vanished into her headache.

The pleasant memories of the talk she and Jim had had were replaced by her memories of the dead stare on the face of the child whose parents had been killed as part of a sick game to mess with Sherlock. So, she sat quietly in the audience, watching the man chew gum as evidence and witnesses told the jury what a monster she was. Sally felt like an idiot. A complete and utter idiot. How could she not have realized who he really was? But what was heavier on her mind was the way Moriarty didn't even bother to defend himself.

He stood in the courtroom calmly, hardly acknowledging any of the people as they broke down his crimes and stared him down as if he was a strange bug in a jar. Occasionally he'd pop his gum loudly enough cause the people sitting around him to jump, but mostly he just stood there, his eyes locked intently on Sherlock. If Moriarty had been a starving wolf, and Sherlock the warm carcass of a sheep, his glare would've been any less unnerving.

Sherlock himself seemed to be enjoying the opportunity to show off how clever he was in front of a jury. Every statement he made was dripping with sarcasm; the weight of the situation was clearly not high up on his list of priorities. And then there was John, staring uncomfortably between the two as if he was ready to run to Sherlock's side at a moment's notice should Moriarty try anything, instead of where she'd planned on having him, in a pair of handcuffs. Or preferably in a jail cell.

But in the end, if it really had to come down to arresting a man for a possibly killing someone to save Sherlock, and arresting the man who'd blown up a dozen people, she'd put her dislike of Doctor Watson on hold for a while longer.

"...not guilty."

…

Huh?

"What?" Sally shouted, jumping out of her seat. There was an uproar from the audience as they protested what must have been the most absurd judgment a jury had ever agreed upon.

"Quiet! Order in the court!" Shouted the judge over the shouts of the crowd. Sally turned to look at the jury. They were all looking away, staring at their shoes, their phones, or at each other. All of them looked uncomfortable and more worrying, scared. There was something horribly wrong.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sally saw John get slowly out of his seat. His jaw was clenched tightly as he looked down at Moriarty. When she turned to him, John was already gone, the door to the courtroom swung shut behind him.

There was a large crowd outside the court as Moriarty became a free man. Journalist and reporters flocked around, shoving their microphones into his face. He smiled at them politely as they began bombarding him with questions.

"Honestly," He said into a reporter's microphone, "I think the jury made the right decision." He was smiling, his voice just a sweet as it had been when they'd first met.

"Mr. Moriarty," One of the reporters said, "Are you surprised at their decision? After all, you made no attempt to defend yourself." Moriarty tilted his head to the side for a moment with a small chuckle, a strangely innocent gesture, and then looked up at the reporter.

"I actually think this is proof that the system works." Sally felt her hands ball themselves into fist. Why did there have to be some many camera's around? "And really..." His eyes moved past the crowd of people and fell on Sally, "I'm sure now that I've been proven innocent; the _real _culprit can be brought to justice by the wonderful detectives of Scotland Yard."

She wasn't sure when it happened but suddenly Sally was shoving her way through the crowd, her head pounding with anger, and no other thought in her head but to cause this man as much pain as humanly possible.

"I wouldn't do that, Sargent Donovan." Someone had caught Sally by the arm. She turned and yanked her arm away from John Watson.

"Why the hell not?" She hissed, "I figure you'd be first in line to knock the man out. Didn't he strap a bomb to you?"

"Yes, he did, I'm not saying he doesn't deserve it after everything he'd done to Sherlock and me-"

"What then?"

"Is it worth throwing your career away?"

"Why does that matter to you?"

"It doesn't really." He said, running his hand along the back of his neck. "But I get the feeling it would only be helping him." The two of them turned and watched as Moriarty climbed into a nearby cab, the press still chasing desperately after him.

Sally sighed, "You're right." She said, a little shocked at herself for agreeing with a man that she so recently had been planning to arrest. "The sick son of bitch would probably just get off on it anyway. You know the type."

"Shit!"

Sally blinked, "What?"

"Sherlock! The bastards probably going straight to see-sorry I need to go!" He said. Without another word he left, trying to both run home and catch himself a cab at the same time.

Angry, confused and in desperate need of a smoke, Sally went home, wanting nothing more to push everything out of her mind and get a good night's sleep. But when her racing thoughts finally subsided enough for her to catch a couple hours of it, she was haunted by dreams of empty blue eyes, the smell of strawberries, and of the corpse of the young blond who wasn't a whore whom she'd thought she had forgotten.

She lay in bed into late the next day until a call came in about two kidnapped school children. Sally sighed and got out of bed, hoping Sherlock wouldn't be involved, but knowing he would be. Today would be no better than the previous days for Sally, for everything she thought she had finally begun to understand, was going to be turned on its head.


	8. Thanks and Forgiveness

"So, sweetie, what's your name?"

"..."

"It's Claudette, right?"

"..."

"Claudette's a really pretty name. I used to have cat named Claudette. Do you like cats?"

"...no."

"Oh."

"..."

"Me neither."

"..."

"So, um, about the...the man who-"

"I don't want to talk about that."

"Oh, okay."

"..."

"Excuse me one second."

"..."

Sally backed slowly out of the interview room, trying desperately to keep her smile going as long as possible. When she knew she was out of sight, she let her face relax and massaged the cramps out of her face. She would never know how social workers did it. Every now and then, Sally was able to force a genuine bond with a child during lucky circumstances but today...nothing. She wondered if maybe she just wasn't good with girls. Years of working in a man's club had left her a bit harsher and rough around the edges. Just not very good at girl things in general.

"Don't worry about it, Sargent." The social worker said calmly, "Kids take a while to figure out. I'm sure that, given time, she'll start to recover". Sally wanted to tell her that she didn't really have time. That there was a kidnapping, serial bomber on the loose, but the social workers voice was so smooth that she couldn't help being comforted by her words. Damn she was good.

The girl and her brother had been found in an abandon factory a few hours early. Claudette had been lucky (if you can call being kidnapped and slowly forced poison lucky), she was a slow eater, and would be physically fine with a day or two. Her brother on the other hand had been half dead when they'd found him. Sally leaned against the wall next to Lestrade. She was getting tired of picking up the broken pieces of children's lives.

"Sherlock's probably gonna want to speak with her." Lestrade said.

Sally snorted. "Oh that'll be good for her."

"It's not about what's good for her, it's about finding the son of a bitch that did this to them."

"Yeah, I know, but that doesn't mean I have to like the idea of the freak making that little girl cry." She had enough crying children haunting her dreams already.

"I'm sure the social worker will keep him civil." Lestrade said, turning to her with a small smile.

"You ever actually see a person do that?"

"Suppose not."

Sally and Lestrade stood quietly for a moment both lost in their own thoughts. They didn't know it but both of them were thinking along the same lines.

"He found those kids pretty fast didn't he?" Sally said.

"He's Sherlock Holmes, if he wasn't the best we wouldn't work with him would we?"

"Sure, he's smart, but the man figured out where two children were being held captive based on a couple scrapings from a footprint! Come on, who does that?"

"He does, Donovan." Lestrade said firmly. The look on his face said that this topic was no longer up for discussion. "We should go; he's waiting for us now."

"Fine." Sally said. The two of them headed for where Sherlock and John waited.

"Donovan?" Lestrade asked, stopping for a moment in his tracks in front of Sally.

"Yeah?"

"Did you smoke?"

"Wha-no! God, no! Smoking is disgusting."

Lestrade nodded with a smile. Sally never was very good at lying to him.

"Alright, them" Sally said to Sherlock, "The professions are done if the _amateurs_ wanna go in and have their turn." Her insults clearly rolled right off him. Sherlock looked much too eager to bother even acknowledging her, he'd been pacing the entire time he and John had been waiting.

Despite Lestrade confidence in the man, Sally's feelings of unease only grew as she watched Sherlock head towards Claudette and the social workers room. Her desire to run and physically shield the girl from Sherlock's glare was probably matched only by his desire to pry and poke at the truth among her trauma. But he'd said he would try not to be himself and Sally hoped that meant the girl's day wouldn't get any worse.

And the girl started screaming and she knew any chance of that was gone.

John and Lestrade talked for a while after that, about how Sherlock probably just resembled the kidnapper in some way, how the girl was still in shock. Lestrade even managed to squeeze out a joke. But the entire time, Sherlock stood silently by the window, staring out into the night with a look on his face that Sally couldn't quite figure out.

The two of them left first, John and Lestrade, but Sherlock followed after them, his steps slow and deliberate, not at all like his normal eager speed-walking.

"Brilliant work you did, finding those kids with just a footprint." Sally said. Before she could stop herself the words had slipped out. They'd been rattling around in her brain for far too long. "Pretty amazing".

"Thank you." He said. There was no mocking tone to his voice tonight. He kept walking. But Sally couldn't leave it at that. Not after the way that girl had screamed.

"Unbelievable." He slowed down at the door. He was facing away from her, but there was a certain discomforting aura coming from the man. Sherlock took a step forward to leave, and then mid step seemed to change his mind.

"Sargent Donovan."

"Yeah." Sally's hands were firmly in her pockets, her right hand gripped tightly around her knife. Not necessarily to fight off a threat, but more because it relaxed her.

"Thank you."

Sally froze for a moment, unsure she'd heard him correctly. The closest thing to forming words her brain could do was make a small 'huh?'

"I don't think you and I could remotely consider ourselves friends but..." Sally could swear she heard his voice catch in his throat for a moment, "The fact that you never arrested John despite what you know...makes me think you may in fact not be the useless incompetent I thought you were."

Sally swallowed. She considered asking how he knew what she knew but decided against it. He would just say something snide anyway.

"It wasn't like I was doing you a favor or anything." She said. "But we've got bigger problems on our hand then a serial killer being murdered." They'd never spoken like this before, so seriously, as if Sherlock actually considered them equals.

"I suppose so."

"And, well..." Sally thought back to how John had stopped her from trying to punch out Moriarty in front the press. "It's not like the man deserves to go to prison." The memory of the way he'd threatened her a few month back had pushed itself into the back of her mind.

Sherlock nodded. "Well, thank you."

"Why are you saying this to me now?" She asked. Sherlock turned, and Sally finally saw his face.

In all the time she'd worked with the freak he'd had many different faces. He'd smiled in his annoying little way, he'd been excited and happy and occasionally angry at the stupidity he saw in others. But never, in all that time, had she ever seen Sherlock sad. It scared her.

"No reason." He said, not meeting her gaze "I just don't think I'll have another chance to say it." And then he surprised her by letting out a small chuckle. "This is stupid. I'm thanking one of the people who'll be putting the final nails in my coffin."

Before Sally could respond he left, leaving her to stare numbly at the space where he once stood. Sally realized her mouth was still slightly open and closed it, hoping no one had noticed.

Sherlock had never thanked her for anything she had done for him—well, not _really _thanked her. Even before she'd come to know him as the dick he really was, and Sally had attempted to be nice to him, even helpful, he'd never once said it without his voice full of sarcasm. Tonight she'd gotten two thank you's from him and she couldn't wondering if just maybe something in the doctor had changed him just the tiniest bit.

Sally always liked to stare at every piece of evidence at once, letting it sink in random ways and letting it form whole pictures in her head. She did that now, trying to piece everything together. There were photographs of footprints, the abandon factory the children had been locked up in, all them were sprawled over the table in front of her. But Sally's brain wasn't processing much of it. Her thoughts kept going back to the little girls screams, and the way Sherlock had actually seemed sad, and his final words. It was all too much.

And her brain came to only one conclusion.

The girls reaction, his knowledge about the crime, the way the press absolutely worshipped the man these days; it all told Sally one thing.

It had been Sherlock.

It made perfect sense. It was all perfect.

Sally didn't like it.

And as she said it Lestrade, it still made perfect sense to her. Of course it had been Sherlock. That was how he'd always been on top of cases; he was a fraud that was the only excuse in the end. The more Sally said it, the more she actually began to believe it.

Sherlock Holmes must have been a fraud.

Sally worked hard to keep her permanent scowl/look of annoyance going as they drove to 221b Baker Street with a warrant for his arrest. She'd dreamed of this moment more than a few times since she'd met the man but tonight, everything felt wrong. The things Sherlock had said to her were still buzzing around in her head. The way he'd said them, the fact he sounded like he didn't think he'd ever see her again, none of it was right.

She'd thought that his final words to her had been a confession of some kind, but now she recognized them for what they really were.

A goodbye, and forgiveness for what she was about to do.


	9. After you're gone

Sally and Lestrade pulled up to 221b Baker Street with several other cars trailing carefully behind them. Both of them mental prepared themselves for the fact they would soon be arresting a man they both had been spent years working with for crimes they had thought he'd helped them solve...

But ten minutes later they would they would be running, scrambling, calling every number on their phones, spreading the word as fast as their lips would permit. Sherlock Holmes was a fugitive they would say, he's armed and has a hostage with him. Sally would rub her head to fight of an impending headache, knowing that she wasn't getting the entire story.

Twenty minutes later every evening news channel would have a picture of Sherlock Holmes on it, the anchors would provide phone numbers, and relay messages of warning. Lestrade would be pacing, always moving, unable to sit still and waiting for some kind of news. Any sign of that long dark coat. Anything at all. Sally wouldn't ask him if he was alright, instead she would sit quietly and watch him pace, and eventually, pass him a cigarette. The circumstances would allow him one small slip, she would tell him.

Four hours later Anderson would barge in waving a newspaper dramatically over his head, claiming he'd gotten an early edition of the scoop of the century. Sally would roll her eyes at the prospect of her ex-boyfriend being of any help to the investigation but she would read it anyway, her eyes widening with shock at each passing word.

He couldn't have made up all of it, she would say.

Keep reading, Anderson would respond. She would, but every letter felt like more of a lie than the last. The small cases, the tiny deduction were one thing, maybe even the kidnapping, but could the man actually have blown up twelve people and killed that poor boy's parents? Could Morairty have just been some actor named Richard Brook?

In eight hours, Sally would fall asleep on her desk, all but wrapped in the wrinkled newspaper. She would again dream of crying children, of dead blonds, of a man in a suit who smelled like strawberries...

Of a man in a suit who called himself _Jim_.

She would wake up in a cold sweat, running straight to Lestrade, the wrinkled newspaper gripped so tightly in her hands that it was at risk of ripping. Lestrade would be where she'd left him, standing in his office, but he would be still, no longer pacing, simple watching the morning light beginning to slowly brighten the city. He wouldn't turn at the sound of her entering.

I think I found something, she would say, her voice would be high, excited. Lestrade would turn slightly, lowering his phone from his ear. There would be a look on his face she had never seen and it would frighten her dearly.

I found...she would start again. Lestrade would shake his head at her.

He's killed himself, he would say, and that was it. There was no further need for words between them.

Twelve hours later, Sally would stand outside a hospital, beside a blood stain named Sherlock Holmes, and every petty word she had ever spoken, every hateful glance; every suspicious thought would seem like a nail in the man's coffin. But if he had truly killed those people, and Sally was wrong, then hadn't justice, in its own way, been served? As much as she would like to think that, her cigarettes smoke would not erase the taste of guilt on her tongue.

Forty-eight hours later, Sally would lay in bed, Anderson besides her once more, unable to shake the thought that what she had done might have killed a man.

One week later, Sally would be back on an old case. She would arrest a young man; white, tattooed, left-handed, for stabbing a young blond who was-not-a-whore to death in an alley nearly a year earlier behind a supermarket. The entire time, she would try not to think of the man whose help was the only reason the girl was getting her justice.

A month later, there would be a letter in mail, a thank you from the young boy who had watched his father die at the hands of a madman, the man he now thought to be a fake detective who'd thrown himself off a building. Sally would wonder if she should reply with something like 'you're welcome, driving people to suicide is a hobby of mine'. Instead she would let the letter go unanswered.

Two months later, Sally would tell herself she was visiting the blonde's grave. She would stand beside it, taking in the small unelaborate headstone, and be glad to finally be able to read the name Sarah Clark that was carved into it. There would no flowers at the grave, no visitors really of any kind as Sarah had turned out to have no family, but it still gave Sally a small measure of peace. A peace that that was shattered when her gaze fell onto John Watson, standing statue-still besides the grave Sally told herself she had had no intention of visiting.

Their eyes would meet and Sally would brace herself for blame or an accusation, instead he would simply stare, as if she had absolutely no right to be there.

Are you going to say 'I told you so?' he would ask. Sally would shake her head. John would nod again, and then turn to walk away.

He called himself _Jim_, She would shout after him. John would stop in his tracks and Sally would tell him that far before Sherlock ever 'hired' him, Moriarty introduced himself as Jim. A small smile would form on John's lips at her words.

Thank you, he would say, I believe too.

Four months later Sally and Lestrade would stand over the bullet ridden body of young man. They would be stumped when it came to identifying the man, and Lestrade would pull out his cell phone saying something about calling for a bit of backup before stopping suddenly in his tracks, his body going ridged.

Oh, he would say pocketing his phone, I forgot he was...

Five months later the name Sherlock Holmes had ceased to pass the lips of anyone in Scotland Yard who was in the presence of Detective Inspector Lestrade. He never mention him again either, content to hold his tongue, and to try and pretend the man had never even stepped into his life in the first place.

Six months later, the legacy of the great 'con-man' was complete forgotten by the city, and it was if the rest of the world continued right on turning. Days continued on as they had before he'd ever even entered her life, except now a death weighed heavily on her soul.

And twelve months later, it had become a normal, almost regular thing for Sally to ask her cab driver to make a detour past the graveyard on Sundays. And every Sunday, at nine o'clock without fail, she would see John standing where he always stood, besides the same grave. Sally would never get out of the cab, she would watch for a moment to know that there was still another person apart from her who was still thought of the man, and tell her driver to keep going. It would make her feel a little less lost to see another person who, like her, was missing parts of the story, but for her the reason was different than from John's.

Sally would always be aware that maybe, just maybe, she wasn't really meant to be a part of Sherlock's story.

This Sunday would be no different from any of the part Sundays, except for the small moment, where out of the corner of her eye, Sally thought she saw the swaying of a familiar dark coat...

But now, right now, she would get out of the police car with Lestrade, not letting herself think about any of the small doubts that filled her mind, or the possibility that she might be wrong, Right now Sally was living nothing but this one single moment, the moment where and Lestrade stood outside the flat in the dead of night, and knocked on the door of 221b Baker Street for the last time.

**THE END**


End file.
